


Codename Griffin

by marauders_groupie



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Actor!Bellamy, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyguard, F/M, bodyguard!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/pseuds/marauders_groupie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake is in a dire need of a bodyguard because, apparently, being an actor is a high-risk job and Clarke Griffin is the best of the best.</p>
<p>Based on the prompt: “I understand that you’re my bodyguard but that was a freaking FRISBEE not a nuclear bomb Jesus Christ – Hey why are you still on top of me and why have I not noticed how beautiful you are?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Codename Griffin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [queenofchildren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren) for sending me the prompt which turned out to be loads of fun. 
> 
> Also, bodyguard Clarke because she is best described by that picture of an angry bird, along with the caption "the bird holds itself up in the air by sheer force of anger alone". 
> 
> Enjoy! :D

The thing is, if someone had told Bellamy Blake five years ago that he’d be sitting hunched over a pile of applications for the position of his bodyguard, he’d have laughed at them.

But life had other plans. Due to a series of unfortunate events, he is now in a dire need of a bodyguard because, apparently, being an actor is a high-risk job that comes with _perks_ such as threatening letters and photos of him when he’s grocery shopping.

(The worst thing about those photos is the fact that he’s wearing pajamas in them and looks like shit, but Octavia begs to differ.)

And that’s how Bellamy finds himself sitting in Octavia’s cramped little apartment and going through the files, hope slowly trickling away with each candidate.

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” he mutters, crumpling one John Mbege’s application.

“Alright, how about Murphy?” Octavia asks, frowning. It’s her fault, really. She’s the one who’s gone all protective on him. “He sounds – fine?”

Bellamy scoffs, remembering the guy who strode in like he owned the place, plopped down in the chair across from Bellamy and replied to his questions in snorts of varying frequency.

“Murphy looks like he’d kidnap me in exchange for a burrito. So – no.”

“Jesus, Bell.” Octavia rolls her eyes, throwing away Murphy’s application. When she gets the next one in her pile, just as Bellamy is seriously considering just offing himself so some weird stalker/Trump supporter doesn’t get the chance to, she lets out a triumphant “Yes!”

“Yes what? Yes, Bellamy, you don’t need a bodyguard?”

“You _do_ need a bodyguard. And I’ve got just the one for you.”

With that, she slides the paper over to him and crosses her arms at her chest, grinning like the cat that got the canary.

However, when Bellamy sees the name printed in the bold black letters at the top of the application, and the picture showing a woman with steely blue gaze, he shakes his head so fast he hears a startling cracking sound in his neck.

“No way! No, Octavia, forget it! I’ll take Murphy, just not Clarke Griffin!” When he’s met with her resolute stare, he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Please, O, have mercy.”

“What’s wrong with her? Clarke is awesome.”

Bellamy cringes at the memory of meeting the 5’4” woman who somehow managed to be more frightening just smiling than Murphy did scowling. It’s unsettling. Bellamy does not have a problem with women in Griffin’s line of work – on the contrary, his sister could probably kick his ass and he doesn’t mind.

It’s just that Griffin really scares the shit out of him.

“She’s oddly small and freakishly intense.” When Octavia doesn’t reply, he continues, a desperate note creeping into his voice. “Octavia, she _literally_ tackled me.”

“You asked her how she’s gonna shield you if she’s shorter than you. She was just demonstrating.”

“Yeah, well,” Bellamy scoffs, remembering how Griffin grinned after she tackled him, “nice demonstration.”

He just wants to act and live in peace, for God’s sake. That’s all he’s ever wanted to do, ever since he realized he could get enough money to put Octavia through school by memorizing a couple of lines, pretending like he’s someone else (never a problem – his life was shitty) and smiling at the camera.

So Bellamy really doesn’t understand how this is his life now – getting a bodyguard, having detectives question him whenever Octavia reports another threat and having to pathetically ask Miller, his manager, to bring beer over so no one would take creepy photos of him.

And he thought the paparazzi were bad.

“Bellamy, it’s going to be Clarke. You rejected everyone else and frankly, maybe that’s for the best. Because Clarke is definitely the only one I’d trust your life to.”

When he doesn’t say anything, Octavia pokes him with a pen she’d just used to rip a hole through all of the other applications. Griffin and she are old acquaintances, having sparred together a couple of times and Bellamy trusts his sister’s judgment, but.

“It’s a big decision, okay, O? She’ll be with me 24/7, seven days in a week. I don’t – “he huffs, running his fingers through his hair as always when he’s nervous. And this situation is making his stomach tie in knots. But Bellamy is also aware that no one else can compare to Griffin’s set of skills and it’s because of it that he sighs, long and weary, before finally muttering, “Fuck.”

Octavia grins at him, mischief gleaming in her eyes. “This is going to be good.”

Somehow, it strangely sounds like – _I’ll enjoy every second of your misery_. But Bellamy is powerless.

“If I die, it’s Griffin. She did it. And I’m not leaving you shit because it’ll be your fault.”

 

*

 

It comes out as a long grunt, interspersed with a yawn. “First thing in the morning does _not_ mean six am.”

Clarke Griffin is standing in the hallway in front of Bellamy’s apartment with a small suitcase in hand, looking way too intense this early in the morning. She did say that she would come early, but this wasn’t _early_ – this was madness.

It didn’t particularly help that Miller dragged him out last night, to some show host’s club opening, making sure that Bellamy doesn’t even think about leaving before four.

And that’s exactly why he reeks of smoke and alcohol, all the wonderful aromas of a nightclub, which prompts Griffin to give him an once-over and smirk. He hasn’t even had the time to change, for God’s sake – the best he could do was pass out on his couch.

“I’m a businesswoman, Mr. Blake. We can’t all party all day and all night,” she says calmly, raising her eyebrows when he doesn’t move to let her in. “You mind?”

“I-“ Yeah, actually, he does mind. He minds this blonde nuisance that’s wearing a perfectly pressed suit this early in the morning, has her hair and her whole appearance in check, while he looks like the poster child for Hollywood being a bad influence.

But then she stops dead in her tracks, waiting for what he’s going to say and he can’t do anything else but huff. “I don’t. Please, come in.”

If he spreads his arms a little theatrically, well – he’s an actor and she’s definitely not going to be impressed. If anything happens during their cohabitation for his safety’s sake – it’s going to be Griffin’s eyes falling out of her head from the sheer rolling she does.

 She takes in her surroundings, her inquisitive gaze pausing on his books, the packet of cigarettes he’s got because he’s a social smoker, and – finally – on him. Bellamy feels like she’s scrutinizing him, dissecting bit by bit and he shuffles to the side, nodding towards the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

Even people like her have to drink coffee, right?

“Please.”

 “Milk?” he asks. When she nods, he gets the urge to say something like ‘ _oh, I thought you took it bitter and black – just like your soul_ ’ but he bites into his cheek to stop himself.

When they’ve both got coffee in hand, Bellamy starting to progressively feel more human with each sip, Griffin clears her throat. “I know your first instinct is to deny being in danger, Mr. Blake. You are not the first one to do that. I understand people need to believe that they can protect themselves, for their sanity’s sake, but the truth is – neither your sister nor I like this situation. You are being stalked and threatened. And that is serious.”

If he didn’t believe it earlier, he would’ve believed it with the way Griffin’s eyes bore into his, her gaze steady and serious.

Bellamy can only manage a nod before she continues. “In case you still doubt my abilities, I’ll let you know that I am more than capable of protecting you. However, it’s not just my skills that are in play. My company will have a team over by Sunday at the latest, and they will make sure you are not being listened in on, filmed or anything of the sort.”

“I don’t doubt your abilities, Griffin,” he replies, surprised that she’d even think that. No, her unyielding personality is the one that rubs him the wrong way, like she’d never be open to debate about anything. “I know you’ve got a medical degree, black belt in karate, expert rank in Krav Maga. My body will probably be very safe guarded by you.”

Jesus Christ, and he’s supposed to be _smooth_.

Griffin just nods, calm as ever. “I’m glad that you don’t have any doubts. In case you do, I’ll be happy to provide you with demonstration, Mr. Blake.”

“Oh, I remember that demonstration of yours the other day. Still got a bruise.” He raises the hem of his shirt, displaying a bare strip of skin now sporting a bruise sickly shade of purple he earned when she tackled him. “And it’s Bellamy.”

“Well, Bellamy, I have to say – I didn’t think you’d hire me. But I’m glad you did. And sorry about tackling you.”

Her voice has a pinch of smugness to it and Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her, seeing right through her politeness. “You’re not sorry at all, are you?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“Cute, Griffin,” he shoots back, pouring more coffee. It’d probably be polite to offer her more but she looks ready to jump out of her chair. “And it was Octavia who said you’re the best.”

“Oh, I _am_ the best.”

And then it dawns on him. Respect. With her straight posture, with her intense focus, not a single strand of hair out of place – Clarke Griffin looks capable, responsible and she demands respect without ever having to voice it. Respect which she knows she deserves.

In a different life, maybe he’d appreciate that. In this one, he just smiles, showing her to the spare bedroom and hoping that he knows how to do this – live with a person who he barely knows. He’s had roommates, but this is different.

When Griffin sets her suitcase by the bed, he asks, “When’s the rest of your stuff coming?”

 “What do you mean?” She frowns at him.

“I mean, is that all you’ve got?”

Just a suitcase – plain grey, medium size, maybe a week’s worth of clothes. Hardly enough for a month or longer.

“Yeah,” she replies, eyeing her suitcase like she’s just noticed it, and Bellamy doesn’t miss how she seems to bristle at that question. “That’s all that I need.”

Somehow, it sounds like that suitcase has a deeper meaning but his mind is hazed with sleep-deprivation and Bellamy just sighs.

“I’ll let you get settled, then.”

Griffin nods, shifting towards the window where LA is waking up below them. The sky is twenty shades of pink and orange, sunlight filtering through the curtains and casting a golden glow on her skin when she speaks.

“And don’t worry, Bellamy. You won’t notice me. That’s a part of my job description.”

 

*

 

The first few days are rocky. Bellamy isn’t going to get an award for being the world’s best person, but he tries to be as decent as possible despite startling every time he wakes up to the sound of the shower and it takes him a long time to realize that he doesn’t live alone anymore.

For her part, Griffin seems accustomed to him jumping a little when she walks into the kitchen in the morning and hardly ever comments on that. Whenever he sees her, she’s in her black suit, hair up in a tight bun and her posture is absolutely unyielding.

Maybe that’s a part of her job description, too, Bellamy realizes. It might be very easy for clients to fool themselves into thinking that they’re friends with their bodyguards so maybe she’s trying to avoid that.

He can’t blame her, not really. At least she doesn’t show a sign of wanting to kill him yet so Bellamy is going to call that a win.

What he is not going to call a win is being woken up at the asscrack of dawn by the sound of a drill. It’s probably not drilling right into his brain but it sure sounds like it.

When he manages to drag himself to the living room, there’s at least ten people milling around his apartment, two drilling into the wall connecting his living room to his bedroom and Clarke is overseeing their work with her hands on her hips.

“Griffin?” he croaks out, feeling like shit – like he always does before his first cup of coffee. “Why are you destroying my apartment?”

At that, she replies, “Not destroying. Making sure your apartment is safe.”

There’s a sound of glass breaking when a lamp is knocked to the floor and Bellamy frowns at the guy who looks torn between running away and staying to fix things. Clarke just lets out a weary sigh.

“Jasper – “

“Sorry, boss,” the guy says, sheepish, as he returns the lamp to its place. “Beer’s on me.”

At that, Clarke’s lips widen into a smile and she points her index finger at Jasper. “A fancy-ass one, you got it?”

“The fancy-assest.”

Bellamy is kind of lost for words as he watches the exchange. Clarke Griffin is a lot of things but he’d have never thought the words ‘fancy-ass’ would roll off her lips. Somehow, he can’t imagine her drinking beer, swearing and shooting the shit with people who wear goggles.

Or people who are letting out a string of profanities in both Spanish and English, like the girl who’s checking the other lamp. Honestly, she’d be Bellamy’s type to a fault – brown hair, slim, legs that stretch into infinity and beyond, but then she glares at him and he’s actually oddly concerned by the fact that he’s so easily intimidated.

“Your lamps are shit,” she tells him. “And also, you have nonexistent home security system. What’s up with that? I thought you were an actor or something. You could invest into technology to keep your ass safe from harm.”

“I – “

“He’s investing into us, Raven,” Clarke reminds her, patting her shoulder lightly as she turns to Bellamy. “We’re putting up hallway cams and Raven here will patch them through to my tablet so we’ll know who’s coming and going.”

“Sure,” Bellamy nods, still frowning at his lamps. “What I don’t get is why my lamps are important. You think they’re the ones trying to kill me?”

“You never know. Lamps _are_ pretty shady.”

Bellamy sputters at that, unable to believe that Clarke Griffin just made _a pun_ and she smirks before turning back to a guy who’s colonized half of Bellamy’s living room with a wide assortment of laptops, tablets and monitors.

“And get me a cam in the lobby, okay, Monty?”

“Don’t we need a permission for that?”

“Do we, really?”

Monty gives her thumbs up and Clarke nods, satisfied.

It’s kind of hard to go back to roommates who ignore each other after that. The team leaves in the afternoon and Bellamy is asking Clarke what she’d like for dinner before she has the chance to go all professional on him.

He gets it, he gets that he’s technically her employer, but she seems like exactly the type of person he’d willingly hang out with. All dry wit, badassery and responsibility. Hypothetically speaking, they could probably be friends.

“Oh, like _you’re_ gonna cook,” she shoots back, pausing in the doorway to her room.

“Are you doubting my cooking skills?”

“I just might be.”

“Fine. Get changed and get ready for your mind to be blown.”

She seems reluctant at first when she enters the kitchen in a pair of sweatpants and a ratty NYU t-shirt, comfortable like Bellamy had never seen her, but he just beckons her over to where he’s letting the cheese melt over the chicken and allows himself to enjoy every second of the amazed look in her eyes.

After that, it gets easier. She still wears the suit most of the time but she’s letting her hair down until they’re sitting in front of the TV one night, easy and companionable, and she’s yelling at Sarah Palin’s speech in support of Trump.

“Fuck you!”

Bellamy can’t help a smile, looking at her get all riled up – far from the calm she seems to be radiating all the time. No, she looks pretty pissed and when Palin asks whether the people are ready to stomp for Trump, her eye roll is a sight to behold.

“Stomp for Trump, are you fucking kidding me, Palin? How stupid can you get?”

They somehow get from that to a bottle of wine each, knowing that there’s no reason to get up for a photo shoot or an interview in the morning, and Clarke looks dazed as she watches turtles mating on Animal Planet.

“Nature is amazing,” she whispers. “Turtles are like the Van Goghs of nature, Bellamy.”

It’s kind of fascinating.

(Clarke dazed, not turtles.)

Bellamy is pretty buzzed, too, and he only has alcohol (and himself) to blame when he poses a question that’s been bothering him for quite a while.

“Your mom is the head of your company, isn’t she?”

Clarke winces, blinking at the turtles and then turning to him to do the same. Her cheeks are red, she’s probably still thinking about how nature is amazing and how turtles are fucking funny while fucking, and then she snaps out of it.

Just like that.

“Yeah,” she confirms. “She is. Why?”

“I heard Jasper call you the boss, so. I did some digging. How does someone go from med school to being a bodyguard?”

She might be uneasy about his question but it doesn’t show. Where her face was expressive, now it’s a mask of perfect blankness sliding into place. It makes Bellamy want to turn back the time.

He’s gotten to appreciating moments like these, where it almost seems like they’re friends instead of Clarke being his bodyguard and employee.

“By choice,” she replies, simple as that, and turns back to the TV. “Now, are we gonna watch the wonders of nature at work or?”

Bellamy doesn’t get her. He probably never will, but he’s willing to live with that.

“Yeah. Let’s go watch some turtles getting it on.”

 

When she catches on to how much he hates mornings and leaving without coffee for a shoot, she presses a cup into his hand wordlessly first thing in the morning. She’s still wearing her bathrobe, her hair in one of those turban-like things girls do to dry it off and she flashes him as small smile.

The coffee tastes like heaven and she laughs when he tells her just that. “I’m glad it was up to your standards.”

The thing about Clarke Griffin when she laughs is that she does it like she wasn’t expecting for it ever to happen. Like the very notion of someone saying something funny surprises her. Her eyes light up with mischief and wonder and when the outburst passes, she throws her head back, taking a deep breath.

“Long day today, huh?”

And it is, that day is long – shooting from seven in the morning to way past midnight. The director of the drama he’s starring in, a story about a soldier who has done terrible things but is on his road to redemption, keeps making him go again until someone finally realizes that they’re shooting again in five hours.

When he returns to his trailer, where Clarke usually waits for him these days, she’s asleep, curled around one of his books. She teased him about liking history so much but he’s got a nagging suspicion that she’s actually doing it out of fondness, rather than true mockery.

“Clarke,” he whispers, shaking her gently.

“Five more minutes.”

Bellamy chuckles, carefully setting the book on the table next to the couch and considers carrying her back to the car.

He chooses against it because she’d probably hate him forever.

“Come on, Clarke. Let’s go home.”

She bats her eyelids open, a little bleary and confused and Bellamy can’t help a smile that tugs on the corners of his mouth. This is the first time he’s seen her like that and he likes it. He likes being friends with her.

“Home?”

“Yeah,” he nods, helping her up. “Home.”

 

Clarke Griffin’s transformation into a human instead of a robot culminates with a day in the park. Beautiful, sunny, the whole nine yards of the city slowly transitioning into autumn and the leaves turning deep red in front of their eyes.

She draws. It’s one of the things Bellamy’s learned about her when he asked her how was she able to stay in her room for such a long time. And her answer was as simple as that, although she still hasn’t shown him her works.

It’s fine, he doesn’t mind.

They’ve just found a nice bench by an artificial lake where they can see the whole park when he hears someone shout his name and begins turning around.

He doesn’t see who called him because he catches a blur of movements to his right, Clarke’s slight but powerful body launching towards him and then his breath is knocked out of his lungs as they hurtle towards the grass.

“Get down,” she says a little too late and then looks to her right, where a Frisbee has fallen to the ground. It’s a plain plastic green Frisbee, not a threat, and Bellamy can’t contain his laugh when he realizes that she probably thought someone was trying to kill him.

“It’s a Frisbee, Griffin, Jesus Christ, not a nuclear bomb.”

A furrow appears between her brows and her nose wrinkles in the cutest – _wait_. Bellamy’s brain short-circuits as he processes that Clarke Griffin is on top of him, her body pressed flush against his as she heaves, her lips parting and her ivory skin reddening – from her cheeks, down her neck and Bellamy is suddenly tempted to discover more.

She’s looking at him equally confused, maybe even surprised, judging by the way her eyes widen and then soften. He’s guessing it’s just adrenaline but he can feel her pulse when he raises a hand to her neck, nearly cradling her jaw and being brave enough to be willing to try to do just that.

Jesus Christ, she is beautiful. Like he’s seeing her for the first time, frizzy and reckless hair – every strand with a mind of its own, glistening golden in the midday sunlight, eyes that reminded him of steel but now just seem like the clearest blue skies he’s seen in a while and the mole above her upper lip – the one he’s getting the urge to run his thumb over.

“Bellamy,” she breathes out, her muscles tightening where they’re pressed against him and he wants to say something – anything – maybe even kiss her. It seems like he could, she feels real, she feels like the realest thing he’s seen in a while. “This – “

They’re interrupted by who he presumes to be the Frisbee’s owner, a girl barely older than twenty and looking extremely embarrassed.

“God, I’m so sorry,” she begins, cringing. “I just wanted an autograph or – the Frisbee seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Clarke scrambles to get off of him, trying to regain her composure, as he smiles at the girl and assures her that it’s alright. By the time he’s autographed her shirt, the Frisbee (made Clarke sign it, too, no matter how much she scowled) and at least ten pieces of paper for her friends, Clarke looks like she wants to forget all about what happened.

And so they don’t talk about it.

It’s back to being friends the next day, the incident forgotten, but Bellamy still can’t un-see her flustered, worried, just a little wrecked. The same he felt.

 

 

*

 

The friendship shtick goes well for a while - until they leave his apartment for one photo shoot or the other and he disappears on a smoke break in the middle of it, just forgetting to tell her.

You would’ve thought it was World War III from how quickly she mobilized everyone to find him and burst through the doors leading into the back alley flushed, hair a mess, and her gun out – just to see Bellamy leaning on the railing and taking a drag out of his cigarette.

“What the fuck,” she deadpans. For a second, he’s pretty sure she’s going to shoot him. The barrel of the Glock she’s holding is pointed right at his face and Bellamy swallows hard.

“I was just smoking,” he presses out, gesturing towards his cigarette.

In a second, she’s holstered the gun and flicked the back of his head with more force than she probably necessarily had to. When Bellamy blinks away his confusion at having a gun pointed at him and being slapped – she’s glaring a hole in his head.

“You could have told someone! Seriously, Bellamy, what is even the point of me being here if you’re just going to vanish?”

“It’s just – “

“You think you and your manager are the only ones who know where you are at this moment?” she shoots back, crossing her arms at her chest and looking more furious now that she’s getting calmer than she had when she hit him. “No. Actually, about one hundred people know that. And it’s a fucking nightmare if we don’t even have any idea who’s threatening you. So maybe, if you like being alive, you’d do well to try and help the people who are trying to help you!”

“I’m-“he starts, feeling his cheeks heat up and resisting the urge to rub at his neck, ashamed that he’s being told off, but Clarke cuts him off.

“Immature and irresponsible. What, is this funny to you? Oh, look, someone’s threatening me so I had to get a bodyguard,” she mimics his voice, awfully wrong. “This is not fun and games, Bellamy. People die every day because this world is full of lunatics who can’t wait to find themselves a new target.”

Something in the air around them shifts as her voice gets strained, weighed by something he can’t recognize.

“You wanna how someone goes from med school to being a bodyguard?” she asks but it comes out like a challenge. Her shoulders are squared now, her eyes widening in fury. “Her dad gets killed because he asked too many questions and the man who was supposed to protect him does nothing. And she quits med school because she’s not going to patch people up when she can stop them from getting hurt in the first place.”

Bellamy can’t find the words to say, watching her expression of raw pain as her voice nearly breaks at that last word. He’s good with words, he can memorize lines in a matter of minutes, but he can’t find something to say right now.

Something like – _oh_. Something like – _now I get it_. Something that would express how sorry he is for being irresponsible. Anything that could help him explain how much he cares for her, as a friend, how much he appreciates her, as a professional.

But nothing comes out and Clarke huffs, voice dripping with bitterness when she speaks again.

“That’s how.”

And then, a hard mask falls into place on her face. From calamity to calm in a second. Back to Clarke Griffin he knows.

“Finish up and we’ll head inside.”

They don’t speak to each other for the rest of the day.

 

*

 

If he thought they were making progress, it all ended with his cigarette break. Clarke made a point to keep an eye on him at all times and whenever he tried to apologize, she cut him off by saying, “It’s my job. I don’t give a shit what you do, as long as it’s not on my watch.”

He’s never hoped that the day in the park would turn into something substantial but he didn’t ever think they’d stop being friends, either. Miller tells him to snap out of it – she’s just his bodyguard, he’s pulling strings in the police department so they’d find Bellamy’s stalker sooner, and it’s all going to blow over.

But maybe Bellamy doesn’t want it all to blow over. Sure, he wants to get rid of the stalker that’s still sending photos, making Clarke punch the wall every single time as if she could’ve changed something, but.

He wants to keep seeing her.

“So tell her,” Octavia suggests over dinner one day. Clarke is sitting with Raven two tables away, lost in her own conversation, but Bellamy doesn’t miss the way she’s constantly scanning the restaurant for potential assailants.

“She’s not speaking to me. And I – fuck,” he says, running his fingers through his curls and stopping himself from just pulling it all out. It’s ruining him, seeing her be polite but not friendly. “I like her, O.”

Octavia’s eyes widen above her plate of spaghetti and he knows how bad it sounds going by the fact that she doesn’t even laugh at him.

“Oh, Bell. You really shouldn’t have let that happen.”

“I’ve seen her drunk, O. She likes to compare turtles to artists, it’s – it’s fucking ridiculous, okay?” he says, humor creeping into his voice as he remembers that particular night. It is fucking ridiculous but he’s fond of her.

He’s fond of her when she presses a cup of coffee into his hand, when she shit-talks the director with him, when she says no to a second serving of something he’s cooked but he knows she took it later on because there’s no leftovers in the fridge, when –

Whenever.

He likes her whenever.

And that’s what fucks him up in that restaurant, Octavia studying him like he’s an animal in the zoo and Clarke keeping an eye out for someone who might attack him.

“Shit.”

“Yeah, Bell.” Octavia smiles sympathetically. “Shit. What are you gonna do about it?”

“No fucking idea, O.”

He’s none the wiser when his sister hugs him goodbye later, wishing him luck with a mischievous glint in her eye that means she hasn’t forgotten what he told her. Of course she’s not going to – Octavia has memory like an elephant, especially when it comes to stuff she can tease him about.

Clarke is quiet during the ride back to his apartment, her hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two and her eyes glued to the road in front of them. LA is lit up like it always is, never asleep and ages ago, Bellamy romanticized this kind of existence. He thought it’d be exhilarating; never sleeping, working, enough money to take care of himself and his sister in his bank account, people shouting his name at galas and coming up to him on the street for an autograph, but.

It’s not what the movies made it out to be.

Most of the time, he just feels tired. Not tired of working – he’s gotten used to it, but some days it just feels like he’s a fake. It doesn’t feel like real work – not like waiting tables or cleaning. His hands haven’t been calloused for quite some time now and he misses that, the feeling of having accomplished something.

“I’m thinking of retiring.”

The silence in the car that has fallen over them breaks suddenly, as Clarke’s eyes flick towards him in a split-second. Then they’re back on the road and interest she might’ve felt is disguised with a flat tone.

“Really?”

He could do it. There’s no reason not to. He’s got a couple of millions in the bank, Octavia is taken care of, he could sell the apartment in the city and just go the fuck away.

“Yeah,” he nods, leaning on the window. “I could herd sheep in Iceland or something. Buy a llama farm. I don’t know.”

Clarke’s chuckle is so low he nearly misses it but it’s there, making his heart flip.

“It’s a good idea. Didn’t think you hated this lifestyle, though.”

“Really?”

She turns over to him, a small smile on her mouth that doesn’t quite reach up to her eyes. “You seem like you’re doing good.”

“I like acting, it’s escapism at its finest. But I don’t like the parties and the people and having my life splashed on the front pages of the yellow press. That I could live without.”

Clarke makes a face, flicking the turn signal on. “Yeah, I get that.”

“And, you know, the death threats aren’t exactly a blast, so.”

Another chuckle. It’s almost disconcerting how proud Bellamy feels of himself when he makes her laugh or do anything but scoff patronizingly.

“It’s your life, Blake. Do what you want to do.”

“We’re back to last name basis, are we?” He tries to mask the hurt in his voice but it’s there. It’s just that – there’s that woman, Clarke Griffin, who was probably born into wealth, who chose to pursue a harder path because she wanted to do something good, who tackled him when he first met her and who still feels like a box of secrets he can’t wait to get his fingers on.

There’s Clarke and, lately, no matter how much he hates the long hours and the parties and being a celebrity, it’s easier with her by his side.

He looks at her as she drives, unflinching at his question, and knows that she’s got her own suitcase full of shit but he wants to know her shit. He thinks that her shit goes well with his shit. They’re shit-compatible.

“I’m sorry about the other day, that cigarette – “

When she realizes what he’s trying to say, she waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t. Just don’t do it again while I’m working for you.”

“Have I been that much of a nightmare?”

They make it to his building at last, Clarke pulling to the side and turning in her seat to face him. Her hair is falling out of her braid now, neon sign bathing her face in shades of red and there’s something in her eyes Bellamy can’t put his finger on.

“No, Bellamy, you haven’t been a nightmare. I just-“ At that, she falters, her fingers darting to pinch the bridge of her nose, a crease forming between her brows. “I thought something happened to you. And it was worse because – “

It doesn’t feel like the end of the sentence, not for Bellamy who’s at the end of his seat, watching her look like she’s tearing herself apart over something, and being unable to do anything to change it.

Finally, her expression softens and she sounds like she’s given up when she says, “It was worse because I _care_ about you.”

That kickstarts something inside Bellamy, warmth unfurling in his chest as he does his best to smile at her reassuringly, reaching for the hands she’s wringing in her lap.

“I think it’s a shit consolation but for what it’s worth, I care about you, too.”

The smallest of smiles crosses her lips and she admits, “Yeah, it’s a pretty shit consolation. But it’s a good thing to hear.”

His heart soars at that but promptly plunges when she continues, “We can’t do anything about it, though. Not while I’m working for you.”

“So quit. I’ll quit, too, and we’ll live on a llama farm somewhere far away. Sounds good?”

Clarke beams at him and yeah, Bellamy is so far gone he can’t even see the way back.

“Yeah, sounds amazing.”

 

It takes them less than two hours to break the deal. Bellamy is just getting out of the shower when he sees Clarke in the living room, curled up in front of the TV with a bowl of Doritos in her hand.

When she notices him, only a towel hanging on his hips, it takes her two seconds for her gaze to turn absolutely predatory and she carefully places the bowl on the floor, making her way towards him painfully slowly.

She’s close enough for Bellamy to see the red seeping into her cheeks, down her neck, and he knows that the reasonable thing to do would be remind her of their business agreement, but he really, _really_ wants to see if her blush goes even lower.

Clarke smirks at him, her finger brushing across his chest and collecting a droplet of water sliding down his chest. When she brings that same finger to her lips, Bellamy’s mind short-circuits and any self-control he might have possessed is long gone.

“Screw not doing anything, right?” she asks, peering at him through her eyelashes and looking like she’s pretty aware of the effect she has on him.

“No,” he grins. “Screw _me_.”

And it isn’t very much like Clarke to back down from a challenge.

 

*

 

The premiere of his movie arrives way too soon, time speeding past them in a series of interconnected moments. He and Clarke are getting used to each other in a way that means she’s not going to dislocate his shoulder if he winds an arm around her waist after a long day but, instead, lean into his side.

With the premiere approaching, he’s doing a lot of promoting with interviews in which the most common question is “Are you dating anyone, Bellamy?” and he has to keep a straight face on and say “no” even though Clarke is standing behind the cameraman and smirking.

But at the end of the day, he’s got Clarke pinning him to the door of his trailer or his apartment when they’re sure no one is near, and kissing him like it’s the last thing she’s going to do. He’s not complaining, even though he’s run out of excuses for why his makeup is smeared whenever he comes back from a break.

“So, the premiere,” she says one day, plopping down on the couch and tugging off her pants, much to Bellamy’s amusement. “What? I hate this fucking suit.”

And it’s always like that – always a bunch of new things he’d never have guessed but every single one better than the last. Bellamy feels like he’s filing away things about Clarke, like the way she scrunches up her nose whenever there’s a violent scene on the TV and he teases her mercilessly about it (“You’re a bodyguard.” “Well, I fucking hate violence. Shut up, Bellamy.”), how she responds to her mother’s calls exasperatedly but still does it because she’s rationally aware that it’s not her mom’s fault her dad’s bodyguard sold him out, and how she rests her head in his lap sometimes, just looking at him and smiling like being in his pretentious apartment is the best thing ever.

Most of the time, he’s not even sure how he even deserved her, but he’s not going to complain.

“Alright, I didn’t say anything,” he defends, throwing his hands up in mock-surrender and laughing when Clarke glares at him. “Yeah, the premiere. Tonight. It could be fun.”

“Can’t wait to see your movie.”

“Why doesn’t that sound like you’re genuinely enthusiastic?”

“Oh, no, I am. You’re a good actor, I loved that movie about a singer returning to the scene after a battle with addiction. It was something else.” She worries her lower lip, gaze flicking towards his TV, and then points out, “Did you know that you play a lot of characters who are trying to redeem themselves?”

“I’m aware, yeah,” he replies dryly, not sure where this is coming from. He is aware of that because those are the only roles that make sense. He’s not a typical rom-com hero, it was never the genre he was interested in. If anything, his whole life was one big scraping-his-knees-climbing-back-from-hell type of story.

Clarke scoots over when he sits on the couch, placing her feet in his lap and nearly purring when he starts running his hands down her calves.

“They make sense. Those characters,” he adds when she frowns at him. “Who the hell has a perfect life? I mean, if it hadn’t been for Miller deciding to give me a shot five years ago when Octavia talked me into auditioning for a TV show, I’d still be mopping up floors. So I’m not interested in heroes who have their life planned out for them, the straight path of school-university-marriage-2.5 kids and a white picket fence. I barely finished high school because my mom died and I had to take care of Octavia.”

“I didn’t know.” Clarke looks genuinely sorry and he squeezes her leg reassuringly.

“Please, don’t pity me. I’m happy with my life. If I was one of those rich douchebags who’ve got Ivy League background, I probably wouldn’t be who I am today. Still not interested in playing them, though.”

There was a time in his life when he hated that he’s got a dependent at nineteen and no prospects whatsoever, but he’s not bitter about it now. Octavia is happy, he is happy – and even better, they’re at peace.

Still, when Clarke intertwines her fingers with his, it’s comforting.

“Fuck my tragic life story,” he grins finally, when her features have softened and she looks like she’s a second from actually saying sorry, as if it’s her fault. “There was a pretty good scene in that movie I think we could recreate.”

Clarke scoffs, rising to her feet and flicking the tip of his nose. “Later, nerd. We’ve got a premiere to get ready for and, besides, we don’t have a pool table.”

“I could get one,” he offers and Clarke laughs.

“Premiere, seriously. I hear limo sex is _the best_.”

 Bellamy chokes on thin air and he’s pretty sure even the neighbors can hear Clarke’s laugh.

 

Two hours later, he thinks he looks pretty damn presentable. The movie is getting a lot of heat and they’re expecting to earn at least two of their budgets at the box office, so Miller made sure that Bellamy is fully aware of that.

Clarke emerges from her bedroom in a sequined dress and two inch heels, grinning wildly when Bellamy goes slack-jawed. It wasn’t what he expected but she did confess to hating the suit and he doesn’t mind the slit reaching up to her hip one bit.

“You’re drooling, Bellamy,” she says.

And because he is so, so smooth, Bellamy shoots back, “Where are you going to keep the gun?”

He doesn’t see her holster anywhere, not in that strapless, skin-tight dress, but her smile is positively shark-like when she rucks up the dress to her waist on her left, showing a small-caliber gun strapped to her thigh.

“Oh, okay.”

“Don’t worry, Blake. I can always tackle you.”

“Please, do.”

The red carpet is a tedious affair, even though he knows most of his colleagues say that it gets their blood racing. Not his. All the camera flashes and the journalists asking him questions are just off-putting, but it’s slightly easier with Clarke by his side.

Of course, she always stays back, blending in with the crew, and Bellamy knows that about a half of the reporters are confused because they don’t know her name and they’d really like to.

He’s just replying to a question (“Would you call yourself a method actor, Bellamy?”) when someone shouts his surname, but this time it’s different. There’s always a particular tone to a fan or a reporter’s voice, absolutely unthreatening.

This sounds different, like a warning, like a –

He doesn’t have the chance to react because there’s suddenly a gunshot, Clarke’s on him and his breath is knocked out of his lungs as his heart picks up the pace that of a racing horse, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Screams pierce the air, people stomping left and right from where he’s lying on the floor with Clarke on top of him, and then she’s getting him up, searching for any signs of him being wounded but there’s nothing.

Just the static in his ears, the wild tattoo of his heart thrashing against his ribcage and her golden hair, her golden dress, all that gold as she tugs him along through a mass of people trying to get away. There is too much shouting to even hear what she’s saying, her mouth opening and closing in neat intervals as they’re jostled by the crowd.

“Bellamy – “

There’s Miller, to the far right, shouting something at them but he doesn’t seem to be hurt. Clarke nods, separates them from the flood going towards the main parking lot and doubles back, passing Miller, exchanging a few words.

“You okay, man?”

Bellamy can only nod confusedly, faced with both Clarke and Miller’s worried gaze. Clarke seems to snap out of it pretty soon, another pull of her hand, away from the people going to the main exit.

“A car is waiting for us in the back.” Her words finally become audible and Bellamy nods, unable to do anything else because he heard his name in a man’s voice, heard how it sounded like a threat, and then a gunshot.

It’s only then that he notices Clarke’s small gun in her hand, resting apprehensively at her side, finger on the trigger. “Never put your finger on the trigger if you don’t mean to pull it,” she told him once and he got this nagging suspicion that she never wanted to do it.

No, there is a fine line between people who are protectors and those who are aggressors. But that doesn’t mean Clarke isn’t prepared to do whatever it takes to keep them safe.

He’s grateful for her when she pushes the heavy doors in the back of the building, now empty save for the two of them rushing across the hallways, Clarke glancing behind them to make sure that they weren’t followed.

“Come on, Bellamy.”

And he comes because he’s not sure if there’s anything else he can do. His heart is beating so rapidly and his breaths are coming in short pants as she jostles him into a grey Honda, the most typical car that there is.

“Buckle up,” she tells him, getting into the driver’s seat and placing her gun in her lap. When he doesn’t move, she shoots him another worried glance, her lips pursed into a straight line. “Bellamy, are you alright?”

The words seem to be caught in his throat, along with that breath that got trapped mid-sentence. He’s still on the red carpet, smiling into the camera, and the gunshot keeps replaying in his head like a morbid soundtrack.

Clarke flashes him a small smile before reaching over to put a seatbelt over him, cautiously studying the way he twitches when the lock pops into place.

“I’m getting you to a safe house, alright? Miller knows. It’s going to be fine, Bellamy.”

He wants to tell her how grateful he is but he can’t, his lips permanently sealed. Clarke just turns over the engine, the tires of their car screeching as she speeds up, shifting gears until they’re not under fluorescent lights of the garage anymore.

The minute lights of LA hit him, it feels like he’s been absolved of everything.

That’s when he notices blood trickling down Clarke’s arm, just above her elbow, and he wraps his fingers above it, inspecting the wound.

“You’re hurt,” he tells her, voice like gravel and every word like pebbles digging into his throat. Clarke flinches, looks at him for what seems like eons, but still keeps her hands glued to the wheel as she navigates LA’s streets.

“I’m fine, it just grazed me.”

And then it hits him – she could have died. She could have died because it’s her job to risk her life for someone else’s and it’s not fair. She risked her life to protect him.

A piece of his shirt comes off with a ripping sound and he wraps it above her wound, steady trickle of blood onto the grey seat. She probably knows what needs to be done better than him, but he still tightens the knot, smiling in response when she nods.

“Smart thinking.”

There’s a lot of things he wants to tell her but then she’s sliding into a parking space in front of a grey, run-down building seamlessly, turning off the engine and making her way towards his side of the car. She’s probably expecting she’ll need to pull him out but he gets out on his own, wincing when the door slams behind him.

“Where are we?” he asks as someone buzzes them in, Clarke’s hand in his again, their fingers intertwined as they go up in the elevator.

The world still seems hazy, dreamlike, just like one of his movies in which he’s a war hero who’s been through this shit, but Bellamy hasn’t and he can’t believe Clarke is so calm.

“Somewhere you’ll be safe. Come on.”

Raven Reyes opens the door to let them in and Bellamy’s seen her only a couple of times, enjoyed her sarcasm, dry wit and rapport with Clarke in which none of the two could be winners because they’re cut from the same cloth.

This time, she’s not grinning teasingly – her face is all hard edges and worry, especially when she grabs Clarke’s arm and hisses, “You’re hurt.”

“No, I just really love being a moving target,” Clarke replies dryly, tugging Bellamy along as they make their way inside the apartment. It’s small, he doesn’t even know where it is, but there’s light filtering in through the kitchen window and the smell of coffee in the air.

Octavia and he used to do that. Coffee whenever something bad happened, whenever they felt like they were thrown out of balance. People call different things home. To him, that’s how coffee always smelled like.

“I’ll leave you with Raven while I go take care of this,” she gestures towards her arm slowly. “Is that alright?”

“You need help?”

It must sound funny because Clarke shakes her head incredulously, a small smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. There’s a bloodstain on his shirt’s cuffs from where he brushed against her wound in passing.

“No, Bellamy, I don’t.”

And then she’s going, the steady click-clack of her heels on the floor, and Raven is sitting across from him, sliding a coffee mug his way. With the way his heart is stomping in his chest, he doesn’t think caffeine is going to help, but he takes it anyway.

“You’re in shock,” Raven explains. “It’ll wear off. Are you hurt?”

Bellamy shakes his head.

“No headache, dizziness?”

“No.”

“Good.” Raven sounds relieved, clutching her head in her hands and shaking left to right. “Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

None of this was supposed to happen but it did, Bellamy wants to tell her. He knows some things about Raven, like the fact that her femoral artery was damaged when she was in the same line of work as Clarke and now her left leg is irreparably damaged. And the way she always glances at her friend like she secretly thinks this is the last time she’ll be seeing Clarke.

It’s a dangerous profession but it never seemed as dangerous as today.

So when he sees Clarke again, a white shirt slung over her dress, tousled hair and bare feet, sitting next to him on the couch as Raven talks to someone on the phone in the kitchen, the first thing he tells her is,

“You have a death wish.”

It’s not even a question, it’s a statement.

Clarke just sighs, long and exhausted, runs her fingers through her hair and feels like the first real thing he’s seen all day. There was a before and there is an after. Maybe he could’ve shrugged the whole thing off had it not been for the rough stitching on her arm, jagged ends of where the bullet grazed her skin.

The stitches, black and perfunctory, make it all seem real.

“I did, for a while, yeah,” she admits, turning to look at him. Her eyes don’t remind him of stormy clouds anymore; now they’re just the tired blue of a tide that keeps moving the sea but doesn’t know why.

“The police caught the guy, at least,” she adds, leaning her head on Bellamy’s shoulder tentatively. It’s like muscle memory, the way he knows exactly where her waist is and how she leans further into his side when he wraps an arm around her. “He’s being processed right now, Miller called me.”

“That’s good.”

“You won’t be needing a bodyguard anymore.”

It should come as a relief and Bellamy wants to be selfless, doesn’t want to demand something out of her – something she may not be willing to give, but he still asks because at the end of the day, he’s just an asshole who loves Clarke Griffin and doesn’t want to see her get hurt.

“I’m leaving and I think you should come with me.”

Now that he’s finally said it, it sounds like he should’ve realized it earlier.

Clarke’s got a look that puzzles him in her eyes, and she sighs again, resting her head against his chest as he pulls her in closer.

“I’ll think about it,” she promises, but it sounds like it’s not going to happen. There is a beat of silence before she speaks again. “The thing is, this is what I’m good at. Not being shot at, but keeping my head calm in a crisis. It’s my opportunity to improve the world. If you can’t understand that, if you can’t live with that, then – alright. You don’t have to. But this is my life and I can’t give it up. Not now.”

This is her life and it means Bellamy is going to spend the rest of their lives together worrying whenever she’s protecting someone. It means his heart is going to sink whenever she nearly makes it out, whenever she doesn’t call back.

But it also means that she’ll be next to him, that he’ll get to wake up in the morning with her hair in his mouth and her frozen feet stuck between his calves and that she’ll snort at his jokes and –

“You’re fired.”

Clarke looks at him, confused, and he just grins in response. The tension in her brow fades as she seems to catch on to what he meant and then she’s laughing right along with him. They’re laughing and laughing like it’s the last thing they’ll do and maybe it is.

It doesn’t matter, it’s worth it.

“I don’t mind the llama farm idea, though,” she says finally, wiping away the stray tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, lit up with mirth. “Maybe in a couple of years.”

“You planning on keeping me that long?”

Clarke hums agreeably, nosing at his neck and shifting into his lap. “I got used to you. You know, like a house plant. It’s there, it’s pretty, relatively civil.”

“Love you, too.”

And Clarke just smirks at him, the blonde-haired menace he was hell-bent on rejecting as his bodyguard.

“I got shot for you, what more do you need?”

“A kiss would be nice.”

She gives him that. And she gives him a lot more in the years to come, almost enough happiness to forget the anxiety whenever she’s working.

Still, his very favorite memory is her smile two years later, when she gets on one knee in front of him and asks, “Do you want to run a llama farm with me?”

There’s really only one thing he can say.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Too many llama farms, I know, dammit. I like llamas, what's wrong with llamas? Do you think there's something wrong with llamas? 
> 
> In any case, thank you all for reading and if you liked it - I'd sincerely appreciate it if you let me know. Kudos and comments are my FAVE. 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> p.s. i'm also on [tumblr](http://marauders-groupie.tumblr.com), accept prompts and cry about fictional characters. what else is new?


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